Whenever I tell the story about my marriage at sixteen, I always feel the need to say, “…and I wasn’t even pregnant!”  It still seems as crazy to me that my parents allowed me to get married at sixteen-years-old as it does to those I tell. I get[…]

Despite the various and sundry crimes my fiancé perpetrated on unsuspecting friends and strangers, my parents caved in to the pressure by his parents to allow us to get married.  Apparently, being the more innocent one in the relationship afforded me a certain elevated status in the eyes[…]

One summer day when I was fifteen, I found myself sitting across the kitchen table from a tall, black, big hulk of a guy named Slim, and five, twenty-something white prostitutes lined up on the couch like pieces of fruit left to rot on a weathered windowsill. Slim[…]

(If you would like to start at the beginning of this journey, please go to the archives on the right and start with “It Was A Dark And Stormy Night”). The guy in the turquoise 1956 Chevy was really something!  Dark hair, like my father’s.  Thick lower lip,[…]